


Father's Sins Interrupting the Son's

by Nenalata



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Dad!Sylvain is a bit stern but not great at discipline, Domestic Fluff, Family Feels, Family Issues, Gen, Mentioned Miklan (Fire Emblem), Mom!Mercedes is a bit soft but better at it, Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Siblings, Step-siblings, Sylvain/Mercedes Babies, plus one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22093675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nenalata/pseuds/Nenalata
Summary: A young ruffian had stood outside Castle Gautier's gates for two rainy days, refusing to budge, and the poor rain-soaked guard now had to break the news to the new Margrave: that young ruffian had now been escorted inside the castle to the infirmary, not prison.And was also demanding tospeakwith the new Margrave.“And we’re bringingallthe little orphans of Gautier into our own home? Didn’t the Lady Gautier build all those children’s homes just for that purpose?”The guard swallowed nervously. “It’s just—he claims to be a Gautier, milord.”It couldn't have been any woman Sylvain knew. It just wasn't possible.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier & Original Character(s), Sylvain Jose Gautier/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 34
Kudos: 198





	Father's Sins Interrupting the Son's

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BreadyCakes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreadyCakes/gifts).



> Thank you to dear, dear [@BreadyCakes](https://twitter.com/BreadyCakes) on Twitter for giving me this opportunity to write her Mercedes/Sylvain babies!! I had, uh, quite a bit of fun writing family feels for these two (+five) that isn't unreasonably sad and dramatic. I hope fluff and dramatic is just as good, and I extra-hope you enjoy!

Sylvain was about to ask the drenched castle guard why he’d run through the rain and burst into the family receiving parlor just to announce the arrival of a young vagabond within their walls when Mercedes piped up behind them, “Oh, the poor dear. Is someone tending to him?”

The guard blanched. “Well…yes, milady. The gatekeeper brought him to the infirmary wing. Young man had been standing there for hours, see.”

Sylvain’s eyebrows rose, which made the guard’s pale face grow paler even as Mercedes praised the gatekeeper’s haste. “And we’re bringing _all_ the little orphans of Gautier into our own home? Didn’t the Lady Gautier build all those children’s homes just for that purpose?”

He could _feel_ five pairs of scrutinizing eyes on him. It was such a rare moment when he and his entire family could have a moment to themselves without fear of interruption. Skirmishes with Sreng had been at their fiercest when Sylvain first became Margrave, and while he’d managed to broker more temporary peace treaties each year that passed, he felt he spent more time on campaign than at home. Once, when he’d been gone only seven moons, Beatrice had _shied away_ upon his return. She hadn’t remembered him. And for all Mercedes had rallied to ensure Beatrice remembered names and faces no matter what under the guise of propriety, Sylvain never forgot the way his heart had plummeted to his stomach when his crying daughter had wriggled out of his arms.

The guard swallowed nervously. “It’s just—he claims to be a Gautier, milord.”

Ice pricked his veins like needles. The silence behind him grew _quieter_ somehow. Sylvain couldn’t help it: he glanced over his shoulder. Mercedes sat by the fireplace, still embroidering with a frowning Estelle, spine straight and prim. Beatrice sat at their feet, her own needlework discarded while she openly gaped. Sybil at least had the poise to continue reading, but Noah…

Noah stared at his father.

Noah was the oldest. The heir.

Sylvain’s family was _present_ and this idiot of a guard couldn’t even break the news in private? His late father had imprisoned men for less.

 _Father_.

Sylvain shook himself, turned away from his family, and sneered at the guard. “How about you give me the run-down as we walk?” he suggested far too cheerfully. The soldier quaked in his boots. “Lead the way, my _good_ man.”

The guard didn’t respond. His eyes kept darting behind Sylvain, in Noah’s direction, as if the Margrave’s son were more of a threat than the Margrave himself.

The Margrave, for his part, slammed his hand on the guard’s shoulder in a display of chummy good humor. “Seemed like this was _urgent_ , guardsman.”

The guard let himself be dragged into the hall. As he stumbled alongside Sylvain, he babbled the details. A bedraggled boy no older than fifteen had set up camp outside Castle Gautier’s gates and had refused to be shooed away for the last two days. When the captain came out to investigate the gatekeeper’s complaints today, the boy had demanded to see the Margrave, claiming to be of his blood, and that the Margrave would _want_ to see him. He had made no further demands, but also didn’t seem capable of it in his rain-weakened state. And, well, everyone knew of the Margrave’s… _storied past_ and suspected he might be… _invested_.

All through the guard’s frantic explanations, Sylvain sifted through his memory with equal fear. Which one?

Which woman could it have _been_?

None, he’d thought. If the kid was hardly fifteen…his own oldest was ten. Even if this boy simply looked young, sixteen was still too young. Seventeen _maybe_ , but…

A sheen of cold sweat coated the back of Sylvain’s neck by the time he waved the guard away and entered the infirmary. His mind had come up empty. No one. There had been no one, _no one_ who could have—

A teenager with familiar red hair sat on a sickbed hunched over a tray of food, devouring it without a semblance of neatness. But at the sound of Sylvain’s heavy footsteps, he perked up, quick and defensive as a wolf over its kill, and his face…

“Bless every Saint who ever _fucked_ ,” Sylvain rasped, clutching his heart.

He’d never been so glad to see his brother’s face.

* * *

“He’s not a lost pet, Sylvain. Enough of this…this ‘where will we keep him’ cruelty.”

“It’s not _cruelty_ , it’s fact! Mercedes, Miklan was disowned, remember? Like, written-out-of-the-records kind of disowned. This kid has no…title, no real connection to House Gautier, to—”

“Hey, can I get some more of this soup stuff?” Miklan’s bastard piped up from the bed behind the screen. Sylvain bit his tongue. “Hello? Anyone out there?”

Mercedes pursed her lips when Sylvain made no indication of reply. “Yes, I’m coming right in,” she called before Sylvain could find a silent way to dissuade her. She whisked herself away. “Good afternoon. I’m the lady of the house, Mercedes.” Sylvain winced. “What’s your name?”

“Not much of a house.” A spoon scraped on ceramic. “Just tell it like it is. It’s _Castle Gautier_ , and you’re _Lady Gautier_.”

Sylvain covered his face and took deep, calming breaths.

 _It wasn’t his kid. It wasn’t his kid. It wasn’t his kid. It wasn’t_ —

“True, but I’d hoped you would call me Mercedes. Is that too informal for you?”

A scoff. “No, you’re _real_ kind. I’m Lord Luka Atticus Gautier of House Nobody. You can call me _nobody_ for short.”

Yep.

Miklan’s teenager. Not his.

Mercedes could handle this. Sylvain couldn’t.

No, Sylvain needed to leave. This infirmary wasn’t good for his health.

* * *

Miklan’s kid— _Luka, right_ —had demanded to see the Margrave. He’d staked his life on it; he easily could have shivered to death in the rain, or rotted in prison without Sylvain ever knowing. But he’d done it anyway and had told the castle guards the Margrave Gautier would want to see him.

In a funny way, he had acted like every jilted lover Sylvain had ever avoided. Luka had wanted to see Sylvain, and contrary to belief, Sylvain definitely did _not_ want to see him.

But the Margrave Gautier sure did. And the Margrave Gautier needed to figure out what the child of the worst man he’d ever hated _wanted_ from him.

The door rattled open, and a cleaned-up Luka shuffled into Sylvain’s office. Someone had given him properly-tailored clothes in addition to a bath. He looked more human and less bandit.

 _Less like Miklan_.

Sylvain managed to restrain a tortured sigh. “Usually polite to knock before entering a Lord’s rooms,” he said lightly. Luka frowned.

“Sorry, Lordship. Not really used to _entering a Lord’s rooms_ through a door all polite.” Before Sylvain could quirk a brow, Luka stifled a gasp. “Uh, I haven’t, no one you _know_ , Lordness. Probably. Didn’t take nothing they…missed…”

He shut up and stared at his shiny boots, like their unfamiliar gleam held all the answers.

“Like father, like son, huh?” Sylvain smiled. Luka didn’t move. Good for him, because Sylvain’s smile was more teeth than cheer.

“You tell me.”

Sylvain, mid-tidying of documents on his desk, paused. “Tell you? Tell you what?”

Luka crossed his arms, huffed, and stared at a point beyond Sylvain’s head. “Well? Didn’t you know him? Folk said you were related.”

Silence fell.

Luka clearly didn’t know what to do with the empty space in the conversation he’d been granted. His eyes darted everywhere: the lavish furniture, the neat mountain of paperwork on the desk, the patterns on the rug. Everywhere but Sylvain’s slowly-unfreezing face.

“ _Know_ him?” Sylvain finally laughed. The harsh sound made Luka jump, but he didn’t care. He sank into his chair, still laughing. By the time he managed to control himself, Luka’s frown had deepened, the same expression Miklan would make when he thought Sylvain was mocking him, looking down upon him, when—

“Yeah, I knew him,” Sylvain grinned at him and watched the kid’s eyes widen. “He was my brother. And I killed him for it.”

Another rattle of the door, but this time, it _slammed_ open, and four familiar children talking over each other scrabbled into his office.

“—Father, she doesn’t even _need_ it—”

“Sybil won’t let me—”

“—but _I_ wanted to tell Mother, so—”

“—it’s _my_ room!”

Sylvain stared at his kids, and one by one, they fell silent. He couldn’t imagine what his expression had been. Something they’d never seen before, no doubt.

Something dark.

“Uh,” Sybil offered eloquently, then trailed off to silence. Noah hurried to elaborate.

“Sorry to interrupt. We’ll just…” He gestured at his siblings, trying to shepherd them out of the room, but Beatrice stayed rooted to the spot.

“Is that Luka?” she squeaked.

Sylvain winced. Of _course_ she’d remember.

Luka swallowed and glanced over his shoulder back at Sylvain, like he was asking permission to speak.

His eyes were hazel. Not brown.

Whatever he saw in Sylvain’s face seemed to give him confidence enough to reply. He crossed his arms, turned back to Beatrice, and told her with all the bravado fifteen-year-olds possessed, “Usually polite to knock before entering a Lord’s space.”

Estelle, holding Beatrice’s hand, gaped at him, but Beatrice nodded. “I’m sorry, Father,” she said. “I’m rude.”

“We’re all rude,” Sybil jumped in.

Sylvain waved them all off as apologies threatened to flood his… _space_. “So am I,” he sighed. “Let’s all just…start again.”

* * *

Miklan’s son, as it turned out, wanted nothing from Castle Gautier. He wanted no title, no money, not even a place to stay. He’d tried to sneak out of the guest quarters he’d been given, claiming the bed was _too soft_ when the night guard found him. Come morning, his chambermaid had found him asleep on the floor beside the hearth.

All he wanted, he told Sylvain, was answers from _Margrave_ Gautier.

“Knew my ma a little,” he told Sylvain between bites of the gratin Sylvain didn’t like. “She came to the kids’ home sometimes. Couple months a year.” All six of them had indeed ‘started again:’ Luka had knocked, Sylvain had greeted him, his children had knocked, Sylvain had scolded Noah for not asking before taking five-year-old Beatrice’s chivalric legend histories Ingrid had said she’d “grow into reading,” and now everyone was gathered around on the floor eating lunch together like it was storytime.

Sylvain wasn’t sure how he felt about sitting with them, too. But Mercedes had shown up shortly after the apology session, and he would be damned if he shamed his entire family by being above them. Literally.

Lording over the Gautier name like his detested birthright had wanted him to do.

“You shouldn’t talk with your mouth full,” Noah informed the boy. Miklan’s—Luka stopped chewing and gave Sylvain’s son a piercing glare.

“You interrupting again, kid?”

Hearing a _child_ refer to a ten-year-old as _kid_ made Sylvain choke on his laugh. Estelle beat her fists on his back to help.

“All right, Father?”

“Thanks, babe.”

“Let’s all get along,” Mercedes said sternly. All the children shrank into themselves and Sylvain struggled not to laugh again. When Mercedes’s smile dropped and she _threatened_ people with kindness, even he felt cowed no matter how blameless he was in the matter.

He usually wasn’t. Not even this time, really.

“Go on, Luka,” Sylvain smirked. “We’re enraptured.”

Luka only blinked. “Folk in town said you’re _popular_ ,” he mused. Sylvain’s smile sharpened, and Luka shoveled more gratin in his mouth to shut himself up.

Mercedes’s lectures always ended with kisses. Sylvain’s always threatened to bite.

“Well, anyway,” Luka grumbled, “Ma always went on about my da being a _noble_ and all, some lordling she’d shacked up—uh, fell into b—uh, was loving on,” he corrected himself when Noah gasped. Not much cleaner, but at least _one_ word made sense to his kids, no matter its context. “Said he’d come take us away when he got his lands back and little Luka would _convince_ him.” He snorted and wiped his hands on his new breeches. Mercedes offered him a handkerchief, and he thanked her by blowing his nose in it.

Sylvain grit his teeth. _Keep quiet. Keep quiet. Keep quiet_.

“So, guessing my brother didn’t tell her we’d kicked him out?”

 _Shit_.

“Well, ‘course not. Not gonna get a discount by bein’ useless, are you?”

“Discount?” Sybil asked politely, and Mercedes encouraged Luka to continue, thank the Goddess, because Sylvain wasn’t capable of speaking calmly at present.

“So Ma died, or maybe just gave up, dunno which,” Luka went on. “So me and the other boys in town figured we may as well try’n find him, find out if anyone else were royalty. Kind of a competition, right?” He grinned at Sylvain for the first time, and it didn’t look like Miklan’s smirk, it wasn’t, it _wasn’t_ , it was a proud kid’s smile, proud to have survived by his own wits and independence and crimes Sylvain never had the luxury or courage to claim.

“And then we got caught,” he said, but the confidence didn’t waver. “And the lordship guy said no, he’d been a thief, just like yours truly. So in my cell, this other fellow said there was another Gautier who’d just been Margrave now, and I looked a hell-lot like him. So I should go, uh, _help myself_ to the cell key, go see the castle, ask the new guy, maybe show him my face. And now I’m eating good food first time in—well.”

Luka flushed and looked away from everyone. Like he’d said too much even now. “Was honestly expecting to see my da, really,” he mumbled. “Kind of’d wondered what it’d be like.”

 _Not bad, for a bunch of spoiled rotten children_.

And as much as Sylvain believed Miklan truly would have been pleased beyond common sense to know a secret bastard of Gautier blood had survived fifteen years, infiltrated the castle, and gotten the Margrave alone in the name of common lineage…

Sylvain didn’t tell Miklan’s son that.

Because Miklan wouldn’t acknowledge any son who hadn’t collected a fifteen-year debt of poverty and loneliness with Sylvain’s blood.

Luka was a Gautier. He wasn’t _Miklan_.

Miklan, after all, hadn’t been a Gautier when Sylvain had ended his existence, even had his name not been struck from the genealogy. He’d been a beast. A monster of a man Sylvain had put out of its misery.

Luka was a kid. A kid who’d fought his way to Castle Gautier not to spill blood, but to claim his _own_ blood.

“Well,” Sylvain said to Luka, “your da’s dead.” Mercedes shot him a sharp look, but his faint smile eased her frown.

“Yeah, you made that pretty clear, Lordship.”

“You want a father instead?” Sylain asked with as much casualness as he could muster. Noah nudged his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around him. _It’ll be okay_ , he tried to communicate silently, but Noah wasn’t even distraught. Or paying attention.

Luka’s head shot up. “I want— _what_?”

“Beautiful mother and some really loud siblings come free. We’re generous like that here,” Sylvain grinned, despite Mercedes’s slippered foot kicking his knee from across their cozy circle.

“ _I’m_ not loud!” Beatrice objected loudly. Luka coughed, eyes shining, forcing a laugh. Just like Sylvain when he tried not to cry.

“I don’t want your pity,” Luka tried to scoff, but there was too much quaver and not enough venom in his voice. He coughed again.

“Sounds good. Pity’s not what we’re offering,” Sylvain remarked as the slippered foot kicked him again. “Hell—well,” he corrected himself, “you already _have_ the family, come to think. Whether or not _that’s_ what you want is up to you.”

Luka’s tears spilled over, and he wiped them with the corners of Mercedes’s used handkerchief. “Yeah,” he said quickly, blinking, blinking, blinking, “yeah, sounds, uh, I’ll give it a try—”

Mercedes patted Luka’s knee, and he jumped, jostling his gratin dish. “Too late,” she told him. “You’re stuck.”

Sybil tapped Mercedes’s shoulder. “He was speaking,” she reminded her. “It’s rude to interrupt.”

_(the end)_

**Author's Note:**

> Hang out with me on twitter! I'm [@NenalataWrites](https://twitter.com/NenalataWrites)~


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